


Fine, again

by sydneykate



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Daddy Issues, Experimentation, F/M, Forced Bonding, Forced Orgasm, Forced Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kurt - Freeform, Mutation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sarcasm, SydneyKate, X-Men AU - Freeform, X-men - Freeform, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneykate/pseuds/sydneykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathaniel Essex, more infamously known as Mr Sinister, quite by accident discovers he has a daughter. While he feels slightly tempted to act paternal, her imperfections are hard to ignore and are, themselves, a ticking time bomb. What's an evil scientist dad to do?<br/>On the other side of the coin, a grieving SydneyKate befriends an odd foreigner who seemingly strives to turn her different shades of red. In the face of loss-- it may be just what she needs. In the eyes of Sinister--it is exactly what she needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine, again

**Author's Note:**

> While it will have smut in it at some point, it's not mindless smut (we hope), there is story, character development, etc. 
> 
> Comments are always welcome and encouraged--sometimes they are known to keep my mind focused on actually finishing a story. Kudos are nice little pats on the back.  
> If something is unclear and confusing, let me know, I write chapters in stages so chances are I had two separate ideas and forgot I already began with the other one.

It was a strange numbness that I’d been painfully aware of as the night dragged on. Three hours of looking over to my mother’s cherry stained casket across the room. Three hours of a hideous bright red carpet pulling at my peripherals. Three hours of well-meaning strangers telling me how great she was, how sad I must be, and negotiating through rooms of chairs along the sides, in the middle, and everywhere in between.

  
I’d been prepared for this emotional rollercoaster by an old colleague of my mother who had showed up to the house the same day she’d passed and had camped out on the couch thereafter. It was almost a relief to have him around, though not for the fact he’d not been invited and I saw no end to his unwanted company, but he had gotten everything in order as I chose to withdraw into Netflix marathons. He was unforgivably a morning person, positive, and had traveled here with more ties than shirts and pants. I had no idea what his first name was, so I'd been calling him Dr. Grey.

  
I found myself on the receiving end of the condolence conga-line while strangers grasped my hand, jiggled it, and quoted great literary sages; “You’ll get over it,” “It was her time,” or “I know exactly how you feel, someone from the office died last week…”

  
I had caught myself multiple times struggling with a response and my mother’s colleague, Paul or Patrick or something with a “P”, would whisper “Say “thank you.”" I’d repeat the response and spend the moments in between people wondering why I couldn’t remember my line.

  
“You Ok?” He peeked out over his bi-focal lenses and looked intensely concerned and ridiculous as the double lens magnified his eyes. I was initially unsure if he'd been unaware of this, but when he lifted his eyebrows repeatedly, it confirmed my suspicions--he was trying to be funny.

  
“Yeah.” I turned my head towards him, trying my best to remain expressionless.

  
“If you need a break, I can hold down the fort.” He offered and awkwardly put a hand on my shoulder. I dropped my shoulder and he retracted his hand. “You haven’t cried.”

  
“Hmm?”

  
“All this time, you haven’t cried. It’s going to hit you out of the blue,” he shook the hand of the next person and gently led them down the line with a friendly touch of the arm. “I just want you to be prepared.”

  
“Great.” I robotically shook the next person’s hand and sent them to my right over to Paul…Patrick. I’d have to find out later.

  
A smooth voice to my left caught my attention, “Oh Adam, I see you’re still up and running.” There was a spark of snark and a hint of familiarity.

  
I looked over to my right, “Adam?” I could have sworn it began with a “P.”

  
“I don’t recall extending an invitation-“ Adam spoke incredulously and puffed up.

  
“No, you wouldn’t, now would you? You’ve aged quite a bit since Innex.” The man stood between Adam and I—a great deal taller than myself at 5”9’. Maybe 6”2’? 6”3’? Dark hair tied back made him seem almost worldly and his dark sunglasses left me guessing. Perhaps a Blues Brothers fan. “Relax, I’m here to pay my respects, nothing more.”

  
Adam put a hand on my right shoulder and guided me backward. I resisted, feeling the gesture was not necessary and his grip tightened—it hurt. “Ow.” I put my left hand on his to indicate he was hurting me in case the verbal cue went unnoticed.

  
The man turned my way and a look of amusement spread within the confines of his goatee. “I seem to have forgotten my manners,” he removed a black glove from his hand and offered it to me, “my name is Nathaniel and you are?”

  
Adam released my shoulder and knocked my hand away. “Leave.”

  
I hadn't known the history of Adam and Nathaniel beyond the moment we were in, but Adam felt uncharacteristically hostile and I gathered Nathaniel was pushing invisible buttons I knew nothing of. "I'm SydneyKate," I intervened to keep the peace and shook the man's hand.

  
"Are you a family friend? Niece?" Nathaniel inquired and looked over to Adam. I didn't have to look to know Adam was less than thrilled.

  
"Daughter. I'm her daughter." I'd said it so much that it sounded like "fuck you."

  
"I was under the impression she never had children."

  
I'd released his hand that I'd unknowingly been shaking the entire time, "Theme of the evening."

  
"May I ask-"

  
"No! You can leave!" Adam found his voice again.

  
“Now, now Adam, you don’t want to cause a scene.” Nathaniel’s eyes flickered back to me and then to Adam.

  
“Pay your respects and leave.” Adam’s patience, which I assumed infinite, was scarce.

  
“Very reasonable,” Nathaniel bowed, stepped back and left the line, “my condolences, miss SydneyKate. Perhaps some other time?"

  
"Move on!" Adam was quick to respond. Nathaniel moved down the line and I watched Adam watch him. “When the wake is over, I’ll take you home.” Adam sighed as the tall figure of Nathaniel disappear out the door.

  
“I took my car,” I reminded, “remember?”

  
“Leave it, get it tomorrow.”

  
In that moment I felt trapped. I anticipated the time alone after the wake, I wanted the ability to come and go. Adam, though I was sure in some sense of gallantry, was being oddly paternal. “I can’t leave it!” I snapped.

There it was, the emotion I’d been waiting on all night. Adam shot me a questioning glare and I shook my head, “I’m going home, now.”

  
I broke the line and swatted an incoming hug from someone I assumed relation of. The number of people and the narrowness of each room were a mismatch--I struggled to find my way through the sea of shoulders cloistered in a somber palette. I knocked into a man in a wheelchair and quickly gathered my emotions for the moment and offered an apology, “I’m so sorr—“

  
“Ah, you must be Ms. Tristatt.” The man said with a bow of his head. I took a moment to assess any damage I may had caused, and came up with nothing.

  
“Uhh, yeah. I … Who are you?” It was the first person of the evening that actually knew who I was. The night had been especially trying because not a soul in attendance seemed to be aware of my existence.

  
“I knew your mother many years ago," it seemed he'd recalled it fondly, "she was always full of questions.”

  
"Oh, did I meet you when I was younger?"  
"Yes," he took a deep, even breath, "I believe you were no older than two. You kep trying to say "fire-truck", but it came out-"

  
"I know the story," I laughed politely and tried my best not to rush him, "have you met Adam? He's right over there." I pointed across the room.

  
"No, I don't believe I have." His politeness matched my own, except his face looked sincere. Had my own? "Is he a relative--" As he spoke, I became absorbed in the fine details on his face, trying to pinpoint which wrinkle created that authentic look of sincerity. I looked back up to find the exit.  
“I have to go,” I looked back at the man, not wanting to leave the only person not to spout a cliché at me all night. I knew I was being rude; I hadn't heard the last thing he said and I couldn't do small-talk.

  
“Quite understandable," he pressed the tops of his fingers together, "it's rather dark outside, why not let Kurt escort you to your car?” He gestured behind his chair and my eyes followed up. Somehow I blocked out “Kurt.” He was about my height, black curly hair, tanned complexion, and biceps that nearly had no business in the button-up he’d donned.

  
I pointed, “Kurt?”

  
“Ja, Kurt.” He smirked and offered an arm.

  
We’d squeezed through the crowd and made our way out into the night. It was only about sixin the evening, but the night had already come. The cold air burned my lungs for the first few breaths and settled for being refreshing and mildly uncomfortable, “Uh, thanks…Kurt?”

  
“It was my pleasure.” He offered on a string of accent heavy syllables.

  
I stared off for a moment in the direction of the exit wondering if leaving Adam as I had was a good idea, wondering why I became so overwhelmed in that moment, wanting to have alone time with my mother before the casket was closed.

  
“Fehlt dir was, Fraulein?” Kurt’s voice pricked my mind from its seclusion.

  
“What?” I looked up at him, unsure of what he'd said, how to respond.

  
“What is this?” He gestured towards me.

  
“What was that?” holding onto my original question.

  
“That’s what I want know.”

  
I frowned, were things lost in translation or was he screwing with me, “That thing you said.”

  
“You’ll have to refresh me, I said so many things.” He smirked and put a hand lightly by the sides of his mouth and resumed eye-contact.

  
“Frow lion?” I did my best guess.

  
“Almost,” he got very close to me and held up an index finger. “Fraulein,” his voice purred on the “r” and the rest fell into place, “It’s German.” He pointed to himself, “I’m German.”

  
“And what you said?”

  
“That was in German.”

  
I resisted the urge to stomp my foot out of annoyance and found myself overcome with a completely different sensation when he traced his fingertips up my crossed arms. I turned my head and faced the parking lot, “I have to—”

  
“Go?” his voice was low, different.

  
“Yep!” I forced out of my mouth, turned around, and did my best to walk towards my car without a look back. I had made it to the car before a sound echoed behind me and sent me around with a jump. There was nothing there except for the conversations of people seeping out of the funeral home and light escaping the between the curtains.  


  
I turned back to face my car and he was at the passenger side, elbows on the roof and his head cradled between his hands. I jumped up again, for a moment, and looked sternly upon him, "You scared me."

  
"Entschuldigen Sie, Fraulein." He offeredwhat sounded like an apology, though I felt tempted to discount it as An apology he could speak English and chose not to.

  
"What are you doing?" I asked, annoyance ever-present.

  
"Escorting you to your car, Fraulein." It was matter-of-fact.

  
"I'm at my car."

  
"As am I." He cocked an eyebrow.

  
"You're starting to weird me out." I fished my keys out, and rolled the starter in my hand, "What are you after?"

  
"Your name?"

  
"You know my name." I rolled my eyes and unlocked my car. The headlights flashed and lit up the woods that bordered the parking lot.

  
"Tell me anyway."

  
"I don't need to, you know my name." My heart began to thud in my ears.

  
He pushed himself up and walked around the car, eyes locked, face serious. His gate slowed as he neared me. Taking my hand into his own he shook it, "I'm Kurt. Kurt Wagner," I must have stared at him like he'd had ten heads, "and you?"

  
I smirked, this felt stupid, "I'm SydneyKate Tristatt." I put my free hand on my face, a poor attempt to conceal my embarrassment.

  
"It's lovely to meet you, SydneyKate." He leaned down and kissed the back of my hand. Heat crept up into my face and his smile curled in response.

  
"K." That was my college dollar at work. A bachelor's degree in English and Art: Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Milton at the ready, and what do I say? "K"?

  
His smile didn't dwindle, but his eyes softened. "Can I see you again?"

  
"Yes," I was feeling particularly vulnerable and he was making me feel all sorts of warm-and-fuzzys that I didn't want, "if you spin around." I opened my door, got it, slammed it shut, and put my car in reverse."

  
He knocked on my driver's side window, "I get it!" I could make out through the glass.

He spun around and gestured towards me. I nodded my head and left the lot.

  
An hour of back roads and the white shell that was home revealed itself through the sparse hedges. The house felt quieter and stiller than it had ever. I suppose I hadn’t noticed the stillness with Adam occupying the living-room and insisting on chatting, baking, and knocking over all of my mother’s owl figurines. I stood in the entryway, looking in the dark from outside and trying to will time to wind backwards and my mother’s voice to call out, “Is that you?” Another wave of emotion swept over and clung to my shoulders. They felt heavy and stiff. I felt alone. I felt truly alone. “I’m an adult, I don’t need my mother at every turn.” I said aloud and shut the door behind myself.

Sticking my keys on the foyer table, I emptied my pockets of change, a prayer card, bobby-pins, and a folded up piece of paper and flicked on the lights. I stared at the tiny paper in the basket, unable to recall what it was, what it could be. Curiosity got the better of me and I plucked it out and opened it.

  
It simply read "Kurt, 787 412 224, if you want to talk." I smirked. It was slightly endearing and puzzling .

  
"When did he sneak you in my pocket?" I left it in the basket and walked into the living room. It almost eigh and I could feel the thought of my mother's absence pushing in my mind. Unwilling to give in, I hopped into my nightly routine of meds, pop-tarts, Netflix, pot. I laid on my bed, pop-tarts beside me, rolled joint between my index and middle finger, meds in my cheek, slowly dissolving into a bitter mush. This had been my day, everyday. The meds were to keep me alive, the pot was to deal with life, and the pop-tarts were for the insane hunger I'd feel about forty minutes after smoking.

  
I sat on my bed and let out a breath I'd been holding Any minute the door world open and oddly paternal Adam would disrupt my evening. I’d held off since my “guest” arrived—out of kindness, but after tonight, I didn't feel like being considerate. “Fuck ‘im.” I lit up and scrolled through "SciFi.”

  
Morning came and I was greeted with episode 42 of Star-Trek, the Next Generation. I felt good. Lazy. Things felt stable. I felt like I actually slept.

  
I blindly reached between my bed and the wall, found the pill-box I'd stuffed down there and tucked my pills into my mouth. As they began to form a paste I the side of my mouth, I'd grown weary of the after taste and decided getting out of bed was worth the trade off of not tasting medication into the evening.

  
I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water. The filter struggled to produce fresh water--it had been over-due for a replacement, so I took the time to close the blinds. The bright yellow of the kitchen dimmed and became more agreeable to my eyes. I slid to the sink in my socks and grabbed the glass. As I chugged it back, I relished the feeling of not feeling the water in my mouth—it had been that dry. I had missed this. I didn’t realize I had missed it, but I had.

  
“Hey, Adam, are you making breakfast? I feel like pancakes.” No Answer. “Hey!” I wandered over to the the couch and found his blankets still folded neatly on the middle cushion. “Adam?” I called out into the house and walked toward his leather rucksack.

“Adam?” I went to the window and looked out into the driveway—nothing. Who was going to make me pancakes?

  
I sat on the couch and stared off into the wallpaper, finding faces that I had found as a child buried within the floral patterns. I looked over at the clock on the cable box, it was three P.M. already. Adam wasn’t back.

“Shit.”

  
I’d rushed getting dressed, shoved the contents of the basket in my pocket, grabbed my keys and hopped into my car wearing pajama pants and a purple tanktop. The funeral home had been an hour away towards the cape, and by the time I’d gotten there, it was already passed four, the sky was beginning to darken. The repetition of heading to the funeral home at night, again, provoked anxiety. When I pulled up on the funeral home with police cruisers, lights, and officers in the parking lot, my anxiety crawled to into my throat. I pulled over onto the side of the road and shambled across the narrow street over to closest officer. He looked up, pen hanging out the side of his mouth, “You can’t be over here.” His hands went up as if holding an invisible shield.

  
“What’s going on?” I asked, looking past the officer, ignoring his attempts to block my view.

  
“Ma’am, I’m asking you to leave.” He had some authority behind his voice this time, perhaps I’d take him seriously on the second or third repetition.

  
“I was here last night, I can’t find someone who was here.” I offered, looking at the officer, hoping for some cooperation.

  
“You were here last night?”

  
“Yeah, lots of people were.” I’d realized my sarcasm and scolded myself inwardly.

  
"Are you willing to provide an I.D?” He seemed rather detached and I felt like I was on the phone with an automated call-center. I raced to pull out my license and handed it over. He took it and looked at it and me, then handed it back. “Not yours,” he motioned for me to follow him.

  
As I passed the cruisers, people standing and talking to each other, conversations just out of earshot, it felt as though the frame rate on life dropped and everything was slow, surreal. I walked into the funeral parlor, over the red carpeting, and froze where my mother had been last night. She wasn't there, but something else was--a black sheet draped over a heap on the floor. The faint smell of rancid hamburger clung on the air and as the officer stopped in front of the heap and motioned to pull the tarp up, I held my breath. I knew what the smell was. I knew who was under the tarp. He pulled it in one quick motion and it was arms linked by the elbows behind his back, his head turned nearly 180 degrees, jaw ripped open and the length of his tongue resting atop the severed jaw and his checkered bowtie atop his head. His bi-focals still sat in place--clear, smudge-free. I sunk to my knees and the trip felt rather short. 

“Can you I.D. this man?” the officer asked, his voice dry, unmoved.

  
I had spent the last four days not knowing his name, now that I knew it, it felt ironic and sad“Adam. Adam Grey.”

  
“We have the guest book from the funeral and are reaching out to all parties who attended services last night. I need you to leave a current address and phone number and an officer will meet with you tonight to review this list of attendees. What time did you leave last night?”

  
I heard him, but my eyes still held onto the vision of Adam folded up on the stage like a chinese-fortune-teller.

  
An officer took my address and phone number and I was walked off-the property in a rather hasty fashion. It was just as wel, I could feel myself unraveling. I crossed the street, sat I my car and was quiet for a moment. I screamed and punched the rim of my steering-wheel. Who was going to show up as I prepared for Adam's funeral. Then it hit me. I felt around in my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He wasn't ideal, but he was a distraction. A much needed distraction.

  
The process if calling Kurt was a bit more complicated that originally anticipated. After entering his number, pushing call, and taking a breath, I kept hanging up and slamming my phone on the dashboard. I was crying, he was probably expecting something kinky and grabby, and I wasn't sure I could get a word out.

  
My phone vibrated and I raced to answer it.

"Guten Nacht, Fraulein. Miss me do soon?" His voice was cheery, bright, ignorant.

  
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I gasped as a sob escaped before I physically had to cover my own mouth.

  
"SydneyKate?" He questioned and let silence follow. A long time had passed and though I tried to get myself together, I couldn't. "Kate?" He asked again.

  
I put my hand down and sobbed into the phone. "I know," I tried to calm myself, You don't know me--but-"

  
"Of course I do, we introduced ourselves last night." I heard the sound of a door close on his side and was able to hold off crying as I concentrated on the background noises, "Where are you?"

  
"Here." It was the one syllable I could muster before the tears started again and I full on cried.

  
"At the Pemberly?" It was the name of the funeral home and I was surprised he'd remembered it, or that I had.

  
I was unable to answer. I hugged my steering wheel as I contemplated driving home again, knowing what had happened. "Stay put, I'm coming."

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really tried to edit, but, sometimes the errors slip by.  
> Title is a work in progress, as is the description.


End file.
